


The Wing of the Crow Brings Him to the Cemetery

by jakobscove



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 21:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jakobscove/pseuds/jakobscove
Summary: Zevran Arainai was one of the Crow's best assassins; countless deaths to his name, and just as much blood staining his hands. So, when he's hired to kill the Grey Warden and his companions, he thinks nothing of it. He's just another mark to add to his tally. Another stain on his dagger.Nothing Zevran couldn't handle.





	The Wing of the Crow Brings Him to the Cemetery

It wasn't very often that Zevran was in over his head, usually so full of confidence and swagger, things his actual skill would attest to, and the blood of his many successful assassinations would prove. After all, he was a Crow, one of the _best_ assassins one could hire. But, after tracking the Grey Warden and his party to a clearing where he had laid an ambush earlier, and seeing said Warden handily take down the mercenaries Zevran had hired, he was maybe thinking he _underestimated_ his mark.

A dangerous mistake to make in his line of work.

It's when he began doubting his success rate that an arrow had struck him straight in the gut, so sudden he didn't even have time to unsheathe his blades, now keeling over and landing painfully on his knees. He quickly pulls it from his gut, grunting with the effort, but blood was seeping through the hand he held at his stomach at an increasing pace, his head beginning to spin. He felt nauseous, coughing up spatters of blood to join the pool at his knees, eyes and limbs now heavy and aching. 

_Poison._

He looks around to spot the archer who struck him, catching a red-haired woman at the Warden's back, knocking another arrow and sending it careening towards a mercenaries throat. He fell without so much as a whimper.

Another dizzy spell wracks Zevran's head making him lurch forward and heave more blood onto the ground, barely able to work his trembling arms to lift himself from the dirt. The combat around him was a blur of colours and shapes at this point, his head hurt too much to even keep track of the bodies hitting the ground. 

A few moments pass and silence settles across the clearing, the quiet ringing in Zevran's ears as he squeezes his eyes shut, his own rapid heartbeat the only accompaniment to the unnerving stillness. He hears muffled talking a few feet away and footsteps approaching, the talking quickly pausing as the figures took notice of Zevran's haggard state. 

The assassin was on his knees, hands fastened to his bleeding stomach, a feeble attempt to staunch the flow. His breathing was harsh and a broken arrow lay at his feet, the Warden recognising the dark feathers tied to it as one of Leliana's, steeped in a unique poison that knocks the mark out, if he recalls.

The Warden nods at his companions and Zevran feels his consciousness slip, the poison finally taking effect as he slumps limply to the ground in a bloodied heap.

Zevran had always thought he would meet death in a more _dramatic_ fashion, perhaps even taking a few of his assailants down with him in a blaze of glory. Slowly dying of poison at the feet of his foes without so much as a scratch on them was.. _Disappointing_ , at the least. Mowed down like a common bandit.

He doesn't think he even saw the Grey Warden's face. 

_Disappointing indeed._

 

* * *

 

The first thing that greets Zevran, once his consciousness began to awake him, was _music_. A jaunty melody played on a lute, followed by someone humming along in cheer, a few others clapping to the tune. The scent of a fire, and burning wood, met his senses next, as his head slowly clears, the grogginess now wearing off. Cooked meats accompanies the scent of firewood, chattering and laughter now audible. _Some sort of camp?_

Zevran lets out a quiet groan as he lifts his head and pries open his eyes, vision still a bit foggy, and finally took in his surroundings.

He was tied up. Thick rope bound his arms behind him and his legs were tied in two different places. No gag or blindfold, which he was grateful for, but his dry mouth and the dark skies told him he was out for _at least_ a few hours. He was tied off a few feet away from the lively camp in front of him, a wide tree at his back, and, at an experimental tug, the ropes at his hands were tied around the tree to prevent further movement as well. Inspecting himself, he was clothed but his daggers had been stripped from him. He shifts slightly and found that even the hidden knives sewn into his leather cuirass and boots had been taken. 

They were _thorough_ , he gives them that.

Though there was now a dry crimson stain on his stomach, he feels his wounds have been cared for, most likely magically judging by the dizziness he was experiencing. He rests his head against the rough tree bark behind him, taking a few steadying breaths now that he wasn't on his knees choking up blood. He felt exceedingly fatigued, his throat was sore and his arms and legs ached fiercely. 

But he was _alive_.

His shifting didn't go unnoticed, however, and Zevran's eyes met those of a dark-haired woman a ways off from the camp fire. She scowls at him and immediately approaches someone else sitting at the fire, half obscuring Zevran's view of her. She doesn't move away from the camp fire, possibly taking the seat of whoever was now moving towards Zevran, the figure almost completely shadowed by the bright flames behind them. As they crouch next to him, Zevran quickly sees that it was the Warden himself, now silently inspecting him with a half grimace, akin to one inspecting dirt on a shoe.

Zevran supposes it's now or never.

“Ah, the Warden, yes? How very nice of you to slay my comrades but spare _me_ ,” Zevran laughs, nervousness now settling in, “If...” He licks his lips, his mouth going dry as the Warden says nothing, not even giving any hint that he was listening at all, “If you don't mind my asking, why _did_ you spare me?”

The Warden was ever silent, Zevran now shifting uncomfortably, doubts about opening his mouth making sweat bead on his brow. The Warden holds something to his mouth, suddenly, Zevran belatedly recognising it as a waterskin. He eagerly drank the cold water offered to him, small dribbles of it spilling onto his chin, but he didn't care at the moment, thankful for the odd act of kindness. The Warden places the waterskin beside Zevran, closing the cap, and perches himself on a tree stump near the bound assassin.

“You're a Crow, right?” The Warden asks, Zevran's full attention now on the elf in front of him. He nods as the Warden continues, “I was told the Antivan Crows were the best assassins this side of Thedas,” His tone sounded _accusatory_ , as if he was disappointed at Zevran's failure. 

_You and me both, Warden._

“But,” he continues, crossing his arms over his lap, his head tilting slightly in Zevran's direction, “I was also told you might have some valuable information for me.”

Zevran nods far too quickly, making himself dizzy again, but ignoring the pain to answer the Warden, “Of course! What's mine is yours and what's yours is, _well_.. Yours,” Zevran clears his throat, his eye catching the Warden's hand twitching towards the waterskin beside him.

“Ask away, my friend.” Zevran says, smiling as the Warden sits up straighter, waiting for him to speak.

The Warden hums, nodding once at the assassin, “I have a feeling I already know this, but, who exactly hired you?” He asks, eyes now fixated on Zevran's own, almost glowing in the dim light. 

“An assassin's no paltry sum, and I assume a Crow would be even _more_ expensive,” He adds, mouth quirked up slightly, a small flash of teeth showing, as he continues, “Quite a bit of trouble to go through for just one Warden.”

Zevran huffs out a short laugh, nodding once, before answering, “Ah, a certain Ser Loghain. An old friend of yours, I presume?” Zevran grins, shifting a bit, his muscles still stiff and aching. The Warden's eyes flash at the mention of Loghain, his expression now carefully neutral.

“Seems he got my message, then,” He caught Zevran's eyes with his own again, giving him a derogatory glance, “And he hired just _one_ assassin?” 

“ _Usually_ , it only takes one Crow,” Zevran provides helpfully, tone slightly defensive, “And I _did_ have hired mercenaries.” 

“ _Uh huh_ ,” The Warden hums, now quietly taking stock of the assassin in front of him, “And are you loyal to him? Will you..” He waves a hand, gesturing to some place beyond the camp and surrounding forest, “Report back to him, I mean.”

Zevran chuckles, shaking his head, “Oh, absolutely not, my friend. He paid in advance and I failed to kill you. The deal is done as far as he's concerned.”

The Warden nods, his previously tense shoulders relaxing just a bit at the admission. Zevran bites at his lip then, realising something.

“But.. There is _one_ thing you should know,” He says, voice taut and looking away briefly, “The Crows don't take kindly to failure, and if word of my survival were to reach them, they'll send someone to, ah,” He licks his lips, still refusing to meet the Warden's eyes, “ _Relieve me of my duty_ , so to speak.”

He hears the Warden inhale sharply at that, and the temperature seems to drop around them, light goosebumps beginning to prickle at Zevran's arms.

“ _That_ ,” The Warden starts, strained and quiet, “ _That_ would've been nice to know before we dragged you all this way,” 

He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it much like a cat would raise its fur when frightened. He then sighs, leaning forward, face held in his hands, looking at Zevran with furrowed brows. The air around them feels colder now, both their breaths coming out in a light fog, and Zevran notices the soft glow of the Wardens eyes, now icy and blue.

The memories of the crackle of ice and whistling of cold wind during the fight earlier that day flood Zevran's mind, suddenly, remembering his comrades shattering in place like glass, mowed down like they were nothing. 

He shivers.

“If I may...” Zevran starts, the words blowing another puff of fog from his mouth. The Warden flinches slightly at his voice, pulled from his thoughts, but quickly looks to the assassin and gives him a distracted nod to continue. 

“I would like to make a suggestion to you,” Zevran provides what he hopes is a reassuring smile in his direction, anxiety suddenly making him sweat despite the frosty air.

“Why don't you take me with you? Having an Antivan Crow in your back pocket would be _very_ useful, and,” He huffs out a laugh, nervous, but continues, “And, I know how the Crows operate. You won't be taken by surprise as long as I'm with you.”

He bites on his lip for a moment, then adds with a grin, “Plus, you don't seem to have much trouble with assassins in the first place.”

He waits for any kind of reaction or answer but the Warden is silent for a while, the temperature seeming to warm back to its initial cool night air, only making Zevran sweat more.

A heavy sigh, almost in resignation, leaves the Warden as he stands, patting the dirt off his trousers. Zevran hears him mumble, “ _I'm going to regret this so much_ ,” before the Warden finally addresses him, hands on his hips, nose held in the air, looking down at Zevran sternly.

“Stay put. I'll be back,” 

Zevran pointedly raises his eyebrows, shifting his hands and feet to show that, even if he wanted to, he's not going anywhere. The Warden's stance withers slightly before he puffs his chest out again, stuttering out “Shut up, you know what I mean,” and walking away, mumbling to himself the entire time.

_Interesting fellow._

Not a few minutes later he hears shouts and arguing from the direction of the camp fire, the music stops abruptly and is replaced with several voices echoing throughout the surrounding forest. Someone hushes them, causing the arguments to devolve into harsh incoherent whispers, and someone stomps to the outskirts of the camp, opposite the side Zevran is on.

A moment passes and the whispers stop, a familiar figure now returning to the assassin, Zevran catching a strange glint of something in the Warden's hand. As he comes closer, he realises it's a small dagger, plain and looking more to be for practical use than for combat. The Warden crouches right next to him, shoulders brushing, and Zevran gives him a grin.

“Sounds like it went well, whatever that was,” He says, the Warden pointedly ignoring him and bringing the blade to the thick ropes at his hands. They come free after a few tugs, Zevran immediately rubbing the stiffness out of his wrists, while the Warden moves to the bounds on his legs. Once done cutting the binds, the knife is suddenly brought to the assassin's throat, the Warden's face just as close.

Zevran freezes in place, head pinned to the tree behind him, another drop in temperature, this time frost begins to collect on his eyelashes as he holds his breath, not daring to move.

“ _Listen closely, Crow_. You are free to stay however long you like _but_ so long as you stay with us you will _not_ leave my sight, and should you attempt to finish the job Loghain paid you to do, I _won't_ hesitate to send you back to him, _piece by piece_ ,” The Warden whispers, his tone even and calm, but his eyes are blindingly bright now, the intensity searing straight into Zevran's mind. 

“ _Are we clear?_ ”

The shiver that wracks him is more harsh this time, making his entire body shudder in place as he simply nods once, now barely feeling the cold of the blade against his skin, the frost starting to numb his senses.

Then the Warden moves away all too quickly, the air returning to normal as he takes a step back from the assassin. Zevran heaves out a deep breath, moving to push himself to his feet when the Warden suddenly holds out a hand to him, dagger now absent. He gives him an incredulous look, though the Warden's expression remains stoic and unreadable as he grasps the offered hand and is pulled to his feet.

Their hands are clasped for a moment longer than is strictly necessary, but the Warden pulls away first, taking another step back to give Zevran room to stretch his arms and legs. He flexes each limb slowly, giving a satisfied groan when they crack loudly, then finally turning his attention to the quiet Warden, their eyes meeting once more.

The Warden clears his throat then, glancing away, turning his attention to the camp beside them. 

“Your weapons are over by Sten,” He points to a large man sitting on the outskirts of the gathered tents, a large satchel sagging next to his feet, “He's the big Qunari there. Quite hard to miss.”

“You should probably introduce yourself to everyone,” He continues, this time nodding towards the camp fire, “They're nice enough folks, and they'll get you something to eat, but,” The Warden makes eye contact with the assassin, expression now stern, “You'll be sharing my tent, alright? I'm the one taking responsibility if you do end up stabbing us all in the back.”

Zevran nods with a wide grin, giving a mock salute to the other elf, “Of course, Warden. Zevran Arainai is at your service,” He gives a dramatic bow, and then holds a hand out towards the Warden once he straightens.

The Warden's stern expression falters for a moment, and Zevran spots the hint of a smile quirking the corner of his mouth, before he clasps his hand to the assassin's forearm and gives a light squeeze before releasing him. 

“You may call me Ravi.”

**Author's Note:**

> another wip fic that ill Eventually add more stuff to, mostly i was just randomly inspired to write smthn short about my warden
> 
> lemme know if theres any mistakes or anything, im always open to any feedback
> 
> and as always, thank u for reading !!


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